As to his remorse in regard to a certain secret action of his life, well, I understand that a man of Bunter’s fine character would suffer not a little.  Still, between ourselves, and without the slightest wish to be cynical, it cannot be denied that with the noblest of us the fear of being found out enters for some considerable part into the composition of remorse.  I didn’t say this in so many words to Bunter, but, as the poor fellow harped a bit on it, I told him that there were skeletons in a good many honest cupboards, and that, as to his own particular guilt, it wasn’t writ large on his face for everybody to see—­so he needn’t worry as to that.  And besides, he would be gone to sea in about twelve hours from now.

He said there was some comfort in that thought, and went off then to spend his last evening for many months with his wife.  For all his wildness, Bunter had made no mistake in his marrying.  He had married a lady.  A perfect lady.  She was a dear little woman, too.  As to her pluck, I, who know what times they had to go through, I cannot admire her enough for it.  Real, hard-wearing every day and day after day pluck that only a woman is capable of when she is of the right sort—­the undismayed sort I would call it.

The black mate felt this parting with his wife more than any of the previous ones in all the years of bad luck.  But she was of the undismayed kind, and showed less trouble in her gentle face than the black-haired, buccaneer-like, but dignified mate of the Sapphire.  It may be that her conscience was less disturbed than her husband’s.  Of course, his life had no secret places for her; but a woman’s conscience is somewhat more resourceful in finding good and valid excuses.  It depends greatly on the person that needs them, too.

They had agreed that she should not come down to the Dock to see him off.  “I wonder you care to look at me at all,” said the sensitive man.  And she did not laugh.

Bunter was very sensitive; he left her rather brusquely at the last.  He got on board in good time, and produced the usual impression on the mud-pilot in the broken-down straw hat who took the Sapphire out of dock.  The river-man was very polite to the dignified, striking-looking chief mate.  “The five-inch manilla for the check-rope, Mr.—­Bunter, thank you—­Mr. Bunter, please.”  The sea-pilot who left the “gem of ships” heading comfortably down Channel off Dover told some of his friends that, this voyage, the Sapphire had for chief mate a man who seemed a jolly sight too good for old Johns.  “Bunter’s his name.  I wonder where he’s sprung from?  Never seen him before in any ship I piloted in or out all these years.  He’s the sort of man you don’t forget.  You couldn’t.  A thorough good sailor, too.  And won’t old Johns just worry his head off!  Unless the old fool should take fright at him—­for he does not seem the sort of man that would let himself be put upon without letting you know what he thinks of you.  And that’s exactly what old Johns would be more afraid of than of anything else.”